


Stray Company

by kradarua



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Baker Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Has a Cat Allergy, Dean gets tricked into owning a cat, M/M, Pets, Veterinarian Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 05:01:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30050280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kradarua/pseuds/kradarua
Summary: Dean was only supposed to leave out food and water. How did he get tricked into being a cat dad?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 42
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	Stray Company

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmandaCanzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmandaCanzo/gifts).



> For my lovely friend Amanda, who waited patiently for an entire year for me to get my shit together and then ALSO gave me way more of an extension than I deserve on top of that. <3

Dean wasn't immediately sure what caught his eye. The bright light overhead cast harsh beams down around him, throwing the alleyway into sharp contrast so that beyond the edges of the building the world seemed pitch black. The dumpster lid squeaked and creaked as he lowered it back into place, peering around him for whatever had darted momentarily into his peripheral vision.

Nothing made itself known.

Dean rolled his stiff neck and shoulders, humming at the satisfying pops and cracks that followed. He was long overdue for a vacation; with the cafe doing as well as it was, time seemed to slide by without him noticing. _I should take some time off_ , he'd think now and again, but next week would come and with it a new set of highs and lows, and the thought would slip from his mind as effortlessly as it had materialized.

But the more repetitive motions associated with baking, much as he loved them, would take their toll eventually. Dean turned back towards the kitchen door, mentally running down the list of orders scheduled for the end of the week.

As though summoned by the very idea of catering, Gabriel leaned out through the office door to catch his attention.

"Dean-o! Councilman Roman just called about his reelection brunch this weekend; do we have enough time to swap the cranberry scones out with the gluten-free version?" Gabe's tone was as chipper as ever, even as he pulled an exasperated face.

This made three order changes in as many days. Dean rolled his eyes, pulling the clipboard bearing the schedule for part-timers down from the wall. They'd need an extra set of hands, but they could make it work.

"Yeah, but charge him a rush fee."

Gabe grinned, disappearing through the office doorway to return the Councilman's call.

_Maybe I'll take a few days off next week_ , Dean thought absently as he pulled a tub of flour closer.

—

With a grunt and some careful balancing, Dean managed to get the back door open without setting down the bin of flattened delivery boxes and other assorted recyclables he was lugging along with him.

"Hey, Dean," came Kevin's voice from the doorway, "Fridge is restocked, inventory's been taken, floors are clean. Am I alright to leave? I don't want to be late for study group—“

"Yeah, get out of here," Dean said, setting his things on the ground, "Wait—“ Kevin turned back, quizzical. "Take the pastries leftover from lunch. You guys always look like walking corpses during exams."

Kevin smiled, tired but grateful, offering thanks and a wave before disappearing back through the kitchen.

Glass bottles tumbled noisily into the metal dumpster, followed more quietly by the cardboard boxes. The cool, humid air clung to him, made him feel sticky and eager for a warm shower. As he reached to retrieve the now-empty bin, something bright flashed in the corner of his eye.

Dean turned slowly, frowning at the space between the second of his own dumpsters and the first of his neighbors'. Whatever it was had come from there, he was sure of it, but there was nothing there now. A piece of broken glass reflecting the light?

He stepped away from the dumpsters, pulling out his phone and aiming it at the dark space between the dumpsters, flashlight on.

A cat crouched low to the ground, tucked partway behind a stray glass bottle. Dean shifted his phone and unblinking, yellowish eyes flashed blue-green in the bright light, watching him warily.

Just a stray. Dean lowered his phone and turned to retrieve his bin, already imagining hot water washing away the thin layer of flour that always seemed to cling to him by the end of the day, no matter how careful he was.

The kitchen door creaked open, hailing the arrival of Gabriel. His eyes were cast downwards, monitoring the pile of things precariously balanced in his left hand as he pushed the heavy door open with his right.

"Alright buddy," he cooed— _cooed_ —gently, unaware of his audience, "I'm a little late tonight, but who's hungry?"

Dean snorted loudly. "What are you doing, man?"

Gabriel stumbled on the last stair, eyes wide.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Dean," he griped, "Do you have any idea how much it would cost you if I had a heart attack on the job?"

"What are you doing?" Dean asked again, crossing his arms and nodding at the armful Gabriel had only just managed to stop from tumbling to the ground.

Gabriel huffed, stepping past him towards the dumpsters. "We have a visitor; I'm being a gracious host." With careful, purposeful movements, he set two saucers, one with cream and another with what must have been tuna, down on the pavement and sat back, placing the remaining items—three dishtowels and a bottle of water—next to him.

Dean rolled his eyes, annoyed. "The cat, seriously?"

Gabriel shushed him, watching as said cat came slinking into view from between the dumpsters, sniffing curiously at the saucers. After a few precautionary glances up at the two of them, it settled comfortably to enjoy the treats. It looked a little scruffy, but not nearly as thin as Dean would have expected of a stray.

"How long have you been doing this?" Dean asked, frowning. The cat hadn't come any nearer to him but he already felt vaguely itchy all over, the threat of allergies looming.

Gabriel hummed, considering. "Three weeks or so, I guess? I only give it whatever leftover cream we have that's about to go bad; the tuna I brought from home."

_Great._

The cat finished its meal. Gabriel reached out to it, cooing encouragingly until it stepped forward to sniff curiously at his fingertips. Apparently reassured about any immediate safety concerns, it rubbed its cheek against Gabriel's palm, chirping quietly.

Dean sighed, defeated. It was clearly too late to hope the stray would give up and looked for food elsewhere.

"Look, just...just wash the saucers when you're done, ok? On high heat. Twice."

Gabriel nodded, smiling. The cat's tail swished happily as he scratched under its chin.

"Wash the dishtowels at home or throw them out," Dean added over his shoulder on his way back inside. "If you bring fleas into my cafe, I'll kill you."

Gabriel laughed. "You got it, boss."

—

It didn't matter how often Dean had done it before; every time a swirl of meringue landed perfectly on top of a lemon tart, every time chocolate shavings sprinkled over the top of a cake fell _just so_ , every time the crust of a baguette crackled satisfyingly under his knife, pride and fondness swelled in his chest.

He called it an appreciation of his own craft.

Sam called it "the food version of having hundreds of pet pictures on your phone."

Well, so what if he was a bit of a proud parent about his menu; it meant he could be trusted by his customers to deliver quality products.

After closing time, the kitchen was full of noise. Between the rumbling of the industrial dishwasher and the sound of rushing water as his staff went about their usual cleaning practices, the selected music du jour couldn't be at anything less than full volume if it were to be heard by anybody. Dean was quite fond of that atmosphere. Cleaning was, of course, an important and necessary albeit not-very-thrilling part of the job; loud music and conversations shouted cheerfully over the din lessened the tedium considerably.

That said, he also liked the current atmosphere very much. There was something meditative about the kitchen so early in the morning, when the only sounds were his own footsteps as he went from the prep table to the fridge and back again and the _shhk-clack, shhk-clack_ of his knife slicing through fresh fruit. Gabriel would be here soon, bringing with him the to-do list for the day, but until then Dean would work in the steady calm and let his thoughts wander wherever they pleased.

The office phone rang, sounding particularly shrill in the quiet kitchen. Dean insisted to himself that he wasn't pouting at the interruption as he set aside his bowl of apple slices and removed his gloves.

"Hey Dean," came Gabriel's unusually raspy and cheerless voice, "Sorry to do this to you but I've been up all night with a fever and some kind of stomach bug. I'm not going to make it in today."

"No worries, man," Dean reassured him, looking around for the clipboard of orders that needed filling. He grimaced at the sheet—Gabriel's absence would certainly be felt today. Maybe he'd see if Kevin could come by for a few hours. "There anything important I need to know, besides the orders I've got here?"

"Nah—“Gabriel was interrupted by a painful-sounding cough. "Sorry; no, nothing special, just what's there."

"Alright. Feel better soon, then."

"Thanks. Oh, wait!"

"What's up?"

"The cat."

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. Gabriel must have sensed his apprehension, because his next words came out quickly, pleadingly.

"You just need to feed it," he rushed, "Just put out some milk and food in the evening and walk away, no need to stick around. You can grab the dishes when the trash goes out. Please?"

Dean grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Fine," he said finally. He made a mental note to check that there were antihistamines in the medicine cabinet, just in case.

An hour before close, Dean went dutifully into the alleyway bearing a saucer of cream, another of tuna (he'd had to run to the nearby grocery store on his lunch break to pick some up; Gabriel had better be appreciative) and a small bowl with fresh water. To his relief the cat was nowhere in sight, so he set everything down by the edge of the dumpster and ducked back inside before it could make an appearance. When he stooped to retrieve the dishes later on, he found the cream gone, but the tuna only half-eaten. Perplexed, he tossed the remainder in the trash on his way inside. Surely cats didn't have a brand preference when it came to tuna, right? Maybe Gabriel gave smaller portions.

The next day, Gabriel was still in no condition to come to work.

"Yeah, yeah," he sighed when Gabriel pleaded again for him to leave food out that evening. A catering order had come in that morning from a client Gabriel usually dealt with, and Dean had been too distracted discussing logistics to remember to ask him how much tuna he usually left out.

This time, when he went to retrieve the dishes, the tuna looked completely untouched and there was still some cream left on the second saucer.

Dean shone his flashlight into the space between the dumpsters, wondering if the cat had wandered off for good, and was surprised to find it huddled right there, maybe a foot away from the food. He stepped closer cautiously, but the cat just blinked up at him sleepily.

"Why don't you eat?" Dean asked. The cat, of course, did not reply. "Do you really just not like this kind of tuna? What a choosy beggar."

He nudged the saucer closer to the cat with his foot. Its ears pricked up slightly at the sound of ceramic scraping against concrete, but otherwise, it did not react.

A little worried now, Dean knelt down to get a better look. He was within petting distance now (not that he was so inclined), but still, the cat didn't scurry away. It was subtle, so subtle he wasn't sure he'd seen it at first; the cat was...shivering? The late April night was cool but certainly not cold; Dean felt alright in just his single-layer long-sleeved shirt.

He sighed. Thinking of the dose of medicine tucked away in his jacket pocket back in the office, he reached one hesitant hand out towards the cat, nerves on high alert in case he needed to make a hasty retreat from scratching claws or chomping teeth.

Much to his surprise, his fingertips made contact with cool fur without any fanfare. He prodded a little more firmly, testing his boundaries, but the cat stayed where it was, huddled and shivering.

This wasn't right. Despite relying on him for food and drink for more than a month, the cat still approached Gabriel with some amount of trepidation, and when Dean emptied the recycling into the dumpster the noise usually sent the cat scurrying away even if it had previously been happily accepting pats.

Dean didn't like cats, but he wasn't an idiot. Shivering plus no appetite plus lethargy equaled sick for almost any creature.

He could just put out an extra dish towel for the cat to curl up on and call it a night. Maybe the cat would feel better in the morning, and Dean would return to find empty saucers waiting to be taken in and washed.

But maybe not. Gabriel was a pretty happy-go-lucky, go-with-the-flow sort of guy, but Dean knew he had a particular soft spot for animals (that soft spot was, after all, the cause of his current predicament), and he didn't think Gabriel would forgive him if he returned from sick leave to find out that Dean had let his pet stray die.

There was a twenty-four-hour emergency animal hospital just a fifteen-minute drive away, according to his phone.

"Ah, shit."

Frustrated, he scrubbed a hand down his face, steeling himself. Forgoing the extra moment of thought about the wisdom of his actions, he reached out, scooped the stray cat into his arms, and stood up.

It huddled against Dean's shirt, looking nervous, but the hissing and flailing and yowling he had expected never came. With a sigh, Dean turned towards the kitchen, realizing much too late that he really should have gone inside to get his jacket and keys _before_ picking up the cat.

—

Dean sheepishly approached the reception counter for the fourth time in fifteen minutes to grab a few more tissues. The woman behind the desk smiled sympathetically at him.

Halfway to the vet, his immune system had kicked online, protesting the trembling stray's presence in the limited space of his car. His hands itched where they had touched fur and his sinuses were so stuffed up it felt like he was on day three of a bad cold. His nose was running like a faucet despite the many tissues he'd already gone through, and his eyes felt just a little too watery.

He sat back down with a sigh. The nurse who greeted him had asked him to wait, had said the vet would take a quick look, and then they'd discuss next steps.

All he wanted to do was go home and take some strong antihistamines. If not for the need to drive home, he'd have already taken the ones in his pocket, but they tended to knock him on his ass fairly quickly. His eye twitched and he fought the urge to rub it, knowing that would only make things worse. He tipped his head back against the cool window behind him and tried to focus on something else.

Damn Gabriel and his stupid soft spot.

"Mr. Winchester?"

The nurse was back, sans cat. Dean stood, clearing his throat and hoping he didn't sound as ridiculously congested as he felt.

"Is it okay?"

"He's fine," the nurse assured him, smiling warmly, "Dr. Novak thinks he has a mild upper respiratory infection—a kitty cold, more or less."

"Oh," Dean said, relieved he wouldn't have to face Gabriel's rage over the loss of his not-quite-pet, "that's good. So, uh, where is it? Um, he?"

"If it's alright with you, the vet would like to keep him here for a few nights. We'd like to do a more thorough examination after he's gotten some fluids; make sure he doesn't have any other health problems, give him some basic vaccinations, that sort of thing."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, feeling awkward. None of that sounded cheap; was there a way to convey "he's a stray, I don't know if I'm willing to hand over a bunch of cash if he'll just go back to being a stray" without sounding like an incredibly cruel, heartless bastard? He didn't think so.

"That's...well, he's a stray, if that matters."

The nurse smiled understandingly. "We know; it's still good that you brought him in," he said, " The more animals vaccinated against things like rabies, the better, you know?"

"Right," Dean agreed, for lack of anything more meaningful to say.

"Can you come back Thursday afternoon? The vet can go over his examination results and direct you to a good adoption shelter if that's the route you'd like to go."

"Sure," he agreed again, resigned. The cafe was only open for lunch on Thursdays; they used the afternoon to prep for weekend catering jobs, if there were any.

Forty minutes later he was finally home. By the time he was done showering, the medicine he'd taken immediately upon entering was well on its way to putting him into a deep, allergen-free sleep.

_Gabriel is definitely footing the hospital bill,_ he thought grouchily as he burrowed into bed, _and buying me a case of beer for the extra effort._

—

Gabriel was absent from work again the next day, but by Thursday he was mercifully healthy enough to at least accompany Dean to the animal hospital.

"Which vet did you go to, anyway?" he asked as he slid into the passenger seat, a recently purchased carrying crate on his lap.

"The one off route eighteen," Dean said, "Why, do you have a preferred vet for the strays you adopt?"

"Off eighteen, huh?" The just-slightly-too-innocent lilt to his voice made Dean think Gabriel knew something he didn't. That rarely boded well, but before he could dwell on it Gabriel went on. "I've never brought a stray to the vet," he said, "but if I had to pick a preferred one, it'd be the one off eighteen."

The same nurse from Dean's previous visit greeted them when they arrived, gesturing for them to have a seat while he retrieved the vet.

"Mr. Winchester?" called a deep voice a few minutes later, and Dean looked up to find a man about his height, with bright blue eyes and kind—if maybe slightly stiff—features.

"Cassie!" Gabriel called from behind him, barreling forward to gather the man in a bear hug. Dean's eyebrows rose in shock, but instead of startled the man looked equal parts exasperated and resigned to his fate.

"What are you doing here Gabriel?" he said, once Gabriel had released him.

"I'm accompanying _Mr. Winchester_ —“ Gabriel emphasized his name in an exaggerated imitation of professionalism. “—to retrieve the stray cat that hangs out around our cafe. Tell me doctor; will he live?"

With a roll of his eyes, the man nudged Gabriel aside to extend a hand to Dean. "I'm Doctor Novak," he said, shaking Dean's hand firmly, "Your cat is doing just fine; I'll briefly review what we did for him here and give you some care instructions before you leave."

Dean followed Dr. Novak down the hall, Gabriel bouncing along beside him, to the second-to-last room on the left. The nurse was waiting for them, standing next to the examination table and petting the considerably-perkier-looking orange stray.

"Thank you, Garth," Dr. Novak said, "Can you print the care instructions please?"

Once the nurse had gone, Dr. Novak took his place next to the examination table. The cat went to him immediately, nuzzling at the sleeve of his coat and chirping expectantly. Obligingly, Dr. Novak offered his hand, face softening from cool professionalism into something warmer as he scratched gently behind the cat's ear. The expression looked good on him.

"I'll send you home with some antibiotics; he'll need a dose twice a day for the next week. The pills are small, so most cats won't notice if you hide them in a bit of wet food, but if he's particularly picky you can let the pills dissolve a little in some tuna water."

Gabriel hummed agreeably, drumming his fingers against the metal table until the cat wandered over to him to investigate, swatting at him playfully.

"He may sneeze or have the sniffles for another day or two. If it doesn't clear up by the third day, bring him back in and I'll take a look."

"Thanks, Cassie," Gabriel said, ignoring the irritated huff from the doctor at the name. "I'll keep him with me until his meds are gone and decide what to do from there."

"Wait, wait," Dean said, "Gabriel, you can't keep him at the cafe."

The cat looked at Dean directly for the first time since they had entered. Dean looked back warily from his place against the wall; the cat was perched on the very edge of the table, as though it were going to leap across the room at him.

But instead, the cat reached out with a single paw—the white fur around his toes made Dean think of socks—and meowed insistently, as though beckoning Dean closer.

"Awww," Gabriel cooed, "He likes you! Stop being a baby, come say hello. I saw you take your meds this morning." He tugged one arm free from where Dean had crossed them defensively over his chest.

"Hey, wait—“

Too late. As soon as the backs of his fingers were within reach the cat was rubbing his face against them, nudging this way and that until he could settle a fuzzy cheek into Dean's palm. He scratched hesitantly, feeling the cat's rumbling purr in his fingertips. Big, yellow eyes blinked up at him slowly, and for a strange moment, it made Dean think of Sam.

When Dean broke eye contact it was to find the other two men watching him—Dr. Novak softly, the way he had looked at the cat earlier, and Gabriel rather smugly.

He cleared his throat, retrieving his hand to scratch awkwardly at his own nose, belatedly realizing that he was delivering allergens directly to his sinuses.

The cat sniffled, twitching its nose before giving a huge sneeze.

"That's _my_ line," Dean groused. The cat chirped cheerfully back at him.

—

**_3 months later_ ** ****

The urge to rub at his nose for the four hundredth time was strong, but Dean knew it would help nothing, red and raw as he already was. His doctor had assured him that despite a rough start, things would get better gradually now that he was past the first few rounds of immunotherapy.

He should have asked for a specific number. What constituted "a few" anyway?

Admittedly, he was starting to notice that his skin no longer felt prickly and halfway to hives at all times; more like two-thirds of the day. Then again, that could just as easily be attributed to his sinuses being in such distress that his immune system was being forced to pick a singular struggle. The victory was still worth taking, however small; he had naively assumed that if he kept the cat off the upholstered furniture, he could maintain at least a few spaces free of fur and dander.

Within forty-eight hours, Simba—so named by Gabriel—had not only proven that absolutely no surface was safe from cat hair, but that Dean's efforts to keep him off the furniture were cute at best.

Sam and Gabriel could at least _pretend_ to be sympathetic. Gabriel especially, in fact, because if he hadn't promised to house the cat in his no-pets-allowed apartment and hadn't become emotionally attached enough that giving him to a shelter was no longer an option, Dean wouldn't have a furry new roommate intent on suffocating him under the crushing weight of his own immune system.

It was supposed to have been a temporary thing when Gabriel had come to him with the newly-named Simba and a box of cat-care items, hastily explaining that his landlord had found him out. "Just for a little while," he'd insisted, "until I figure out a more permanent solution."

And Dean, foolish softie that only Sam knew he was at heart, hadn't been able to say no when innocent eyes blinked up at him, sock-like paws nudging anxiously at the gate of the carrier crate.

Once again, he should have asked for a specific number. What constituted "a little while" anyway?

A month into Simba's stay, Dean gave in and started immunotherapy shots. The over-the-counter medication was clearly not cut out for this.

Two months in, he stopped asking Gabriel daily whether he had made progress finding the cat a more permanent home. In hindsight, Dean had gotten used to Simba's company startlingly quickly; it became difficult to imagine watching TV without a ball of warm fluff keeping his toes warm, or brushing his teeth in the morning without Simba's usual stream of commentary.

Now, three months in, Dean was fairly certain this had, somehow, been Gabriel's plan all along. Crafty bastard.

Despite the unforeseen benefits of pet ownership, however, Dean felt like he was going to lose his marbles if there wasn't a proper improvement in his allergies very, very soon. Being doped up on antihistamines most of the time was not the most productive state to be in, and he was extremely ready to have the fog lifted from the edges of his mind.

"Dean, can you take over at the counter for a little while? I haven't had lunch yet." Gabriel stood in the doorway, already halfway through removing his apron.

"Yeah, no problem."

The lunch rush was finishing up, judging by the slightly chaotic state of their workstation and the flushed but relieved look on his temp worker's face.

"Thanks, Charlie," he said, pulling on a clean pair of gloves, "Go ahead and clean up the counters some, I'll take orders for now."

Charlie turned the remaining line of customers over to him with a grateful smile. Dean found his usual rhythm preparing drinks and serving his lovingly crafted baked goods until a familiar, gravelly voice interrupted his autopilot.

"Hello, Dean."

The guy was intimidating at first glance; he stood straight with his shoulders back and down, his gait was purposeful, his gaze had a commanding edge to it, and in its neutral position, the corners of his mouth tilted ever so slightly downwards. Had Dean not known better, he might have guessed Dr. Novak worked as some kind of bodyguard.

"Hey, Dr. Novak." he replied, feeling his reflexive customer service smile relax into something more genuine, "The usual?"

The doctor smiled, and just like that everything intimidating about him dissolved away. Dean always found it a fascinating transition to watch.

"The usual," Dr. Novak confirmed, reaching for his wallet, "and please, no need to be so formal; Castiel is fine."

Dean chuckled obligingly. "Castiel, then. One almond milk latte coming up."

Their interactions were always kept on the shorter side, which was a shame. Dean thought they could be good friends if given the time to have a proper conversation, away from the cafe and without Gabriel as a middleman.

And if Dean thought Castiel was nice to look at and selfishly wanted the opportunity to look a little longer, well. That was incidental.

His phone number found its way onto Castiel's coffee cup, alongside a hastily scribbled message to get in touch if he felt like hanging out sometime.

—

**_4 years later_ **

It had taken some considerable convincing from Cas, Gabriel, _and_ Sam, but eventually, Dean had admitted defeat and started working on the cafe's accounting books at home.

"You can crunch numbers just as effectively in sweatpants," Sam had said.

"But work should stay at work," Dean had argued back, "Aren't you always encouraging people to maintain a good work-life balance?"

"Joke's on you," Gabriel had chimed in, raising an eyebrow and fixing Dean with an accusing look, "Staying for hours after close to do the books isn't any more balanced."

Two months of doing the tedious accounting work from the comfort of his own home later, Dean could admit that this was a better arrangement all things considered.

A low, sleepy _mrrr_ made Dean look towards the window sill where Simba was napping in the remaining early-evening sunlight. He fidgeted in his sleep, teetering precariously for a moment before tumbling gracelessly to the floor. Dean snorted.

Simba shook himself a little, stretching forward and then backward, before trotting cheerfully over to Dean.

"Hey buddy," he greeted as Simba stood on his hind legs to meet Dean's fingers halfway. Satisfied with the scratches, Simba purred loudly, pushing his face into Dean's palm. When Dean pulled his hand away, Simba followed, standing on his hind legs again and kneading his white-sock front paws into Dean's thigh.

"Come on, then."

At Dean's encouragement, Simba hopped up into his lap, cooing cheerfully and shifting his weight until he found the right spot to settle down. From this angle, he always reminded Dean of a loaf of bread. If loaves of bread were more orange-y and had tails, anyway.

Simba did not always make the best desk-mate—sometimes he would push items to the floor if he felt he wasn't being paid enough attention; frequently he sat down on some or all of Dean's work; every once in a while he would insist on climbing onto Dean's shoulders, despite his size making it fairly impractical for both of them. Generally speaking though, Dean liked the company. Simba's steady, ever-present purring made for comforting white noise, and taking the occasional break to dole out scratches or (carefully) rub Simba's fuzzy belly abated the worst of his frustrations.

Indeed, it was mostly thanks to Simba that Dean was able to definitely close the books each evening and declare himself off-the-clock; they had a daily routine.

Simba's ears twitched, and Dean sat back in his chair as the cat raised his head to look towards the window. Two seconds later—like clockwork—Simba chattered happily and hopped out of Dean's lap, trotting out of the office with his tail high in the air.

Dean marked his place and closed his notebook, smiling as the usual song began. One regularly pitched meow, followed by increasingly louder and lower-pitched ones until Simba was making more of an _ouuuuww_ sound.

By the time Dean reached the bottom of the stairs, Simba was perched in his usual place on the table by the front door, tail twitching excitedly as the lock clicked. The very second the door opened, he began a steady stream of coos and chirps.

"Hello sweet boy; I know, I know, I missed you too," Cas responded, navigating around Simba to remove his coat and shoes even as the cat brushed insistently against his legs.

" _Mrrrr; mrow, mraa_ ," said Simba.

"You've got so many opinions," Cas responded encouragingly, giving him a few good strokes before standing up straight. He smiled fondly. "Hello, Dean."

"I'm always greeted second in this house," Dean said, pouting in mock-petulance. Cas laughed, stepping forward to slip his arms around Dean's waist.

"Have you considered sitting on the table and meowing? It works for Simba."

Dean snorted, unable to maintain his fake pout, and leaned forward for a soft kiss. "Welcome home, Cas."

A gentle squeeze and then Cas released him, listing a few dinner suggestions over his shoulder as he wandered into the kitchen. As Dean turned to follow, Simba brushed against his leg.

"You know," he said, crouching down and offering his hand, "it's _my_ name on the marriage certificate."

Simba meowed happily, pushing his face against Dean's palm.


End file.
